


Suffering

by AriaDream



Category: Bleach, Gangsta. (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Bleach/Gangsta, Crossover, M/M, Nicolas is in charge, Souls live On, Starrk doesn't care
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-19 15:41:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9448055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AriaDream/pseuds/AriaDream
Summary: Coyote Starrk is defeated and ends up in a strange place, the attic of a building he doesn't know. He spends most of his time sleeping, until the man in the apartment beneath him gets very sick. In an act of mercy, Starrk kills and eats him, absorbing his soul. And Nicolas Brown is very strong.It might prove to be a mistake.





	1. Chapter 1

Author’s Note: Bleach/Gangsta crossover. Hehe.

Starrk was facing his new situation with complete and utter apathy.

The Primera Espada – if that ranking had any meaning anymore – was a bit confused by his circumstances. He’d fought the shinigami on behalf of Aizen-sama. He’d lost Lilynette and fallen in battle. Starrk hadn’t died, though, because dying was something he was terrible bad at. (haha, funny except it wasn’t) Instead he’d just passed out at the agony.

Starrk had woken up in the attic of a building he didn’t recognize. There were no holes in the roof, so he hadn’t fallen through. Puzzling. Vaguely bewildered and uncaring, Starrk had let himself drift to sleep. Yet even Coyote Starrk could only sleep so long. Eventually, the mildly concerned arrancar left behind the attic to explore the rest of the building.

What he found there confused him. This was a dwelling for humans. They each seemed to have their own territory within it, where the others could not go. Starrk tried to walk through a wall and only bruised himself, to his shock. However, that proved to be fortunate in one way. Starrk wasn’t the least surprised when a human saw him, as he looked through a window into the street.

However, Starrk wanted to explore the various territories within the larger den. How could he do that? Good luck came in the form of a human who seemed to be fixing various aspects of the building. One day he dropped a keyring as he was leaving and Starrk took it. He knew it likely wouldn’t last long before the humans re-secured their territory but for now, he could enter the various rooms.

What he found was not all that interesting. There was a woman with a child who lived in a mess even Yammy would not tolerate. An old woman who lived in immaculate neatness, contrasting incredibly with her neighbor. A youngish man who seemed to be studying something confusing, from the books Starrk saw strewn about.

The only ones who interested Starrk were two men. They interested him because they often smelled of blood and death and something else, something acrid and foul. One of them was dark haired and the other light, with only one eye. That caught Starrk’s attention because losing Lilynette had frozen him in something like his resurrection and the Espada also had only one eye.

Those two also interested him because they were the right size. Before the dens could be resecured, Starrk quickly pilfered a shirt, pants and jacket. He was sure the jacket, in particular, would cause the two men some distress but it was loose enough on his frame that when he zipped it up, it hid his bones and hole. Along with a strip of black fabric torn from another shirt – Starrk really was making a mess of their possessions, he wished he could apologize – wound around his head and over his empty socket, Starrk actually looked human.

To the arrancar’s surprise and pleasure, the dens were never resecured. After a bit of thought Starrk decided that someone had suppressed the information about the loss of the keys. Because the humans living in the dens would blame them and demand they pay for the resecuring? Quite likely. Whatever the reason behind it, though, Starrk now had free run of the complex.

Starrk used that access to continue his pilfering. Conscious of the fact that he’d already taken a great deal from the two men, he left them alone and stole cushions and pillows from the rest of the building. The lack of full body pillows distressed him but soon Starrk had a serviceable nest in the attic. He spent most of his time there, sleeping and dreaming of times long past.

But most was not all and sometimes, Starrk wandered like the ghost he truly was. Starrk was very good at staying out of sight but he soon realized the humans were catching some glimpses and there was talk that the complex might be haunted. The blonde-haired man laughed the concern away while the black haired one stuck out his tongue at the thought.

Those two still interested Starrk the most and he observed them moving their hands at each other, to his fascination. It took Starrk some time to understand that the black-haired man was deaf. Hollows rarely survived any kind of disability although with their sensitive noses, deafness would be easier to live with than most. Still, it would be a hindrance, particularly when it came to finding a mate and reproducing. No doubt that explained why the light-haired one often smelled of rutting while the black-haired one did not. Starrk regarded that male with great sympathy.

The seasons changed and Starrk lived a very quiet life, observing the occupants of this large den and sometimes standing in their territories when the humans were gone, gazing through windows. And in the territory of the two men he found a book that explained the gestures they were making. With nothing better to do, Starrk took it and taught himself the sign language. Many hours were spent signing to himself, as he sat on the cushions and stared at the ceiling.

Then, for the two men, things suddenly took a turn for the worse. The black-haired man began to smell very strange, an almost putrid odor that sang to Starrk’s senses of weakness and made his mouth water. Instinctively, he knew the man was turning into an easy kill, although Starrk had no idea why.

The two men knew it as well. The black-haired man rarely left the den anymore and Starrk had to be very careful sneaking in. When he did, though, he often saw the black-haired man lying on his bed, fitfully sleeping with an empty orange bottle beside him. What did the bottle mean, if anything? The contents smelled very strange.

Starrk knew the light-haired man was trying to be with his den-mate as much as possible. Yet, he still had to leave, and Starrk had many opportunities to slip inside. One day, Starrk went into the black-haired man’s bedroom to look for a replacement shirt. He was, perhaps, a bit careless. Did it really matter if the black-haired man saw him?

Still, Starrk was surprised when he turned towards the bed and saw the black-haired man staring at him, sweat beading his skin. Starrk noted that his pupils were very tiny, yet the room was so dark. Could the man even see? Shaking hands lifted and gestured.

_Ghost?_ Starrk licked his fangs and had to swallow back a bit of drool as he drifted towards the bed, the shirt in one lax hand. As he gazed down at the helpless man he felt the hollow hunger rise but firmly held it back. He lifted his fist and nodded it at the man. _Yes._ They stared at each other for a moment before Starrk tilted his head to one side. Then he lifted his hands again and used one hand to stab the other, before ending it with a squiggle. _Kill?_

_Please._ The man on the bed signed before lying back and closing his eyes. Starrk was sure he had to be in terrible pain. Starrk bent over his body, breathing in the disgusting yet alluring scent before grasping the man’s hair and tilting his head back.

Starrk rarely used his fangs but they were still as razor sharp as any hollow. He tore through the man’s throat, severing veins, arteries and trachea. The blood was hot and ever so sweet, with an odd aftertaste that just made it better, as far as Starrk was concerned. He feasted on that blood, vaguely aware of a hand grasping his hair. It soon fell away and Starrk didn’t notice, too lost in his hollow instincts.

When the blood stopped pumping, though, it wasn’t quite enough. Acting on those feral instincts, Starrk jammed a hand through the base of the chest, up into the ribcage. He knew precisely the best way to extract a heart and he did so, drawing it out of its fleshy prison in a smooth motion. When the heart was free Starrk bit down into it, enjoying the texture of the thick meat. Again, it carried that odd taint, but to Starrk it was like spice. It gave the meat a rich if odd flavor.

Finally coming down from his instinctive high, Starrk regarded the mangled corpse on the bed. Eyes were wide and staring at the ceiling, the expression fixed in pain. He did not look peaceful. Starrk felt nothing at all at the thought and licked his fangs before dipping a finger in the still-warm blood. Then he used it to paint on the wall, macabre words that were nothing like him. Starrk was vaguely alarmed by the act, but could not stop himself. Somehow, it just seemed right.

Satisfied with the words on the wall, Starrk cleaned off his finger with licks of his tongue. Then he walked to the wall, picking up the katana sheathed there. He needed it now. Walking out of the territory, Starrk did something he’d never done before. He went to the door to exit the overall den, and stepped outside.

As Starrk walked away, katana in hand, he knew he would never be back.


	2. Wandering Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Starrk, dying is hard.

Starrk was extremely good at aimless wandering.

With no need for food and technically, little need for sleep (Starrk could go three days without if needed) Starrk began to walk. He didn’t know why he had suddenly abandoned his den and felt compelled to walk, but Starrk was not about to question it. It felt nice to have a purpose again, even if that purpose only involved putting one foot in front of the other.

Starrk silently observed the inhabitants of the city as he walked. He knew nothing of humans so he had to assume this was normal. The people here seemed to behave in a wary fashion, cautious of alleyways and other convenient spots for predators. What kind of predators were they guarding themselves from, though? Surely not hollows.

Starrk had no qualms about those darkened alleys and often wandered down them. So he soon realized the humans preyed upon each other. It was extremely familiar to him and Starrk rather approved, although he felt no desire to emulate it. Also, humans seemed to object to someone seeing them rutting. Mildly confusing given that these were places anyone could walk down. If they wanted privacy shouldn’t they take it to a den?

Starrk’s own attitude of complete apathy could have provoked an attack, but something about him held the humans back. Perhaps it was the long katana he carried in one hand. Or perhaps it was the air of nihilism about him, as if Starrk did not care if he lived or died. A dangerous thing in an opponent. Whatever it was, though, Starrk was left unmolested.

Curiously, that changed when Starrk left those grubby little alleyways.

Starrk was attracted to the brilliantly colored lights of a sign. _Bastard_ was the name of this place. Although why would someone name a place after an insult? Although Starrk was vague on what the insult meant, exactly. Something about offspring and mating rights.

As he stared at the sign, Starrk felt an odd familiarity. He was sure he’d never been here before yet, at the same time, he knew this place. That new soul he’d absorbed? Quite likely. Then small hands tugged on his jacket and Starrk blinked before looking down into a female face. The bright lights of the sign reflected oddly from very white skin. Her eyelids and lips were odd colors, pink and green.

“You looking for a good time?” she asked in a sultry purr. Starrk considered it for a moment. This female was offering to rut with him.

“I would but what recompense is required?” Starrk wasn’t sure how he knew but he thought this was a transaction. She knew nothing of him, after all. A professional smile helped confirm his suspicions.

“Fifty for a blowjob, a hundred for an hour,” she said and Starrk was sure that was high. However, as she said the words Starrk remembered. Currency. Money was what humans used to serve as counters, denoting units of work. Starrk never worked if he could avoid it so he was lacking in those counters.

“Ah, my apologies, I have none of that,” Starrk said before taking a step back. The female pouted at him before speaking a touch sharply.

“If you haven’t got any money, honey, you should stop darkenin’ our door. We’re trying to make a living here.” Starrk was mildly amused that he was being told to go away. Was space at such a premium? However, this place no longer interested him and he obediently turned away –

And almost ran into a broad chest. Surprised that a human had managed to invade his personal space without him realizing it, Starrk looked up into a grinning face with pale skin and white-blonde hair. This man was very tall, to tower over him so. He was accompanied by two other humans, both male, one dark skinned and light. They were both of more average height.

“Well, look at this freak. What’s your rank Tag?” …Do what now? Starrk stared up at the man blankly. “You deaf fucker?” A hand shoved his shoulder and Starrk just moved with the motion. His senses were noticing something, a peculiar, rank odor. It was familiar although not nearly as strong as the one he’d become used to.

“Marcus, careful. He could be a normal,” one of the others said but Starrk just licked his fangs, feeling the hunger rising. That scent was screaming to him that the male in front of him was not as strong as he appeared. The weakness was not profound, not yet, but it was there.

“Oh come on, you kidding me? He’s a Twilight, it’s as obvious as a hole in the ground! Come on, what’s your rank?” the human demanded and Starrk met blue eyes before asking his own question.

“Does it hurt?” Starrk asked with gentle concern. An expression of puzzlement crossed the blonde man’s face. “You smell like…” Starrk half-closed his eyes, taking the time to isolate it. “Rotten eggs and roses. Lavender and disease.” It was such a strange and compelling putrid scent. “I knew a man who smelled like that. He died in immense pain.” Although what Starrk had done had still been better than the end the black-haired man had been facing. The blonde man took a step back, horrified realization budding in his face. The others were both staring at Starrk in surprise.

“Sh-shut up! I’m fine!” the man said sharply and Starrk just shook his head. One of the followers put on his weapons, a set of brass knuckles. The other just looked between the two of them, his expression becoming worried. “You don’t know shit about me! Just because I’m thirty-two doesn’t mean I’m about to die!” Thirty-two?

“The scent does. If it doesn’t hurt now, it will soon. Would you like me to end your life? I can do it with merciful speed,” Starrk offered and the man suddenly screamed before attempting to punch him. Starrk moved to one side, letting the blow pass by, and grasped the man’s arm and pulled him further. Before the human could react, Starrk bit him in the shoulder. Not a deep bite, just enough to sample the flavor. Mmm, the same spice as last time, delicious.

The other two humans tried to attack him, with brass knuckles and a katana. Starrk did not bother to unsheathe his own sword, using it like a bokken. They were slow compared to him, so slow, and a few carefully aimed blows put them on the ground. The big man tried again and he was faster but still slow. Starrk was tempted to bite him again but decided it would be rude. Instead, he dodged a few blows before laying the man out with a good, sharp blow to the belly. Starrk glanced over the other two and they were staring him, their scent carrying their fear. Deciding he was finished here, Starrk turned to walk away.

“Wait!” Hm? Starrk turned back to see the big man was already pulling himself up. Impressive endurance, for now at least. “Who are you? _What_ are you?!?”

Starrk tilted his head to one side, debating giving the man a real answer. But he felt contrary. Instead, he tucked his sword under one armpit and raised his hands, drawing the genie out of the bottle. _Ghost._ Then he turned and walked away. There were more shouts behind him but no one followed so Starrk ignored them.

He was a ghost and he was compelled to walk.

* * *

 

Worick Arcangelo came home that night to a scene from a nightmare.

Worick wasn’t stupid. He knew Nicolas was dying. Only twenty-seven and all the overdoses were catching up to him, tearing his body apart from the inside out. Worick knew that he really should be putting a bullet into Nic’s brain, ending his pain quickly and mercifully. And yet, he couldn’t. Just the thought of it brought up too many emotions to name but that came together into a primal scream of denial. It was sick and wrong but Worick couldn’t let Nicolas go.

Worick smelled the blood as soon as he stepped into Nic’s room and flicked on the light, expecting to see his partner had coughed up some blood. It wasn’t unusual at all, these days.

Instead, the lights illuminated a horror. Worick stood frozen as his eye moved over the splashes of blood, the ripped out throat and the gaping hole, the frozen pain on Nicolas’ face. Bile rose in his throat as the room seemed hot, too hot, too hot… then he saw the words written on the wall. _Ghost. Kill. Suffer._ Written in Nic’s blood.

Nausea suddenly overtook Worick and he stumbled back out of the room before vomiting on the floor. He threw up over and over, until there was nothing left but bile. Shaking and ice cold, Worick reached for the phone. He needed… Chad. Yes, Chad could help. Fumbling with the phone, he managed to dial Chad’s private number.

_Hello?_ Chad sounded a bit grumpy, which wasn’t unusual. Worick completely ignored it.

“Chad, Nic’s been murdered, I need help.” Forensics, crime scene specialists, anything! There was a brief pause on the other end.

_Murdered?_ There was a bit of disbelief in Chad’s voice and Worick’s hand tightened around the phone. He knew what Atkins was thinking… you couldn’t define dying on the street as murder, not really, not for someone like Nic. But that wasn’t what had happened.

“Yes! Someone broke into our apartment! They tore out his _heart!_ Chad, I need help!” Worick couldn’t keep the raw anguish out of his voice.

_I’ll be right there. Hang tight._ The line went dead and Worick was thankful. As he waited for Chad, the remaining benriya ran a hand through his hair and tried to think. Who would have done this? Everyone knew Nic was dying and it was a gruesome death, the end of a Twilight who’d OD’d on Celebrer one too many times. Who would hasten it?

Then Chad arrived, and he wasn’t alone. Worick found himself ushered out of his own apartment as cops swarmed it, trying to gather evidence. This wasn’t the normal routine in the slums but for their friends, the police would make an exception. Worick found himself sitting on the hood of a cop car, talking to Chad.

“You have no idea who would do something like this?” Chad’s tone was gentle and Worick shook his head, looking down. He felt cold now, so cold, like the very heat had been ripped out of his body. “No idea at all?” Worick was about to deny it when a thought came to him.

“It’s a little crazy,” he said after a moment, looking up. “But you saw those words on the wall?” Chad nodded. “For years, people have been saying the complex is haunted. They keep seeing a man wandering around and there’s been a lot of complaints about pillows going vanishing, of all the damned things.” Worick half-shrugged. “Nic and I lost a jacket, couldn’t find it anywhere.” It had been his favorite jacket too. “No one’s ever been able to catch the ghost, though. We thought it was bullshit but…” That word on the wall was haunting him. Was the so-called ‘ghost’ all too real?

“Hmm. Can you describe this ghost?” Chad’s tone was non-judgemental. Worick grimaced and shook his head.

“You should speak to Mrs. Wilson. She swears she got a good look at him, almost touched his sleeve. Maybe get a sketch artist with her. And how did the bastard break in?” Worick asked, trying to remember. Had a window been broken? Chad frowned.

“No signs of forced entry. You boys didn’t give anyone your keys, did you?” Worick scowled at him. How dumb did Chad think they were? Atkins sighed, running a hand through his hair. “We’re going to investigate. I’ll see if we can get a sketch of the ‘ghost’. Maybe it was actually a clever squatter, found someplace in your building to hide.” That seemed unlikely but nuttier things had happened, Worick supposed. “You need a place to stay while this gets cleaned up?” Worick’s stomach lurched at the thought. But it would have to be… cleaned up.

“Please?” Worick couldn’t stand the thought of sleeping in the apartment right now, with Nic’s blood smeared all over everything. Chad nodded, compassion on his face, and Worick got to take a ride to Chad’s place. Vaguely, he wondered how long he would stay. He’d talk it over with the man tomorrow. Right now, though, he needed to sleep.

Although Worick wasn’t sure how he would.

* * *

 

The next week was very enlightening.

The police investigation quickly uncovered the fact that a handyman had lost the skeleton key to the building several years ago. They also found a nest of pillows in the attic, along with several shirts and pants that Worick identified as belonging to him and Nic. The ghost, it seemed, was nothing of the sort. Worick was still staying at Chad’s – the policeman hadn’t had the heart to kick him out and Worick didn’t want to go home yet, even if the cleaning crew was done – so he only heard about the reaction of the other tenants when news of the skeleton key leaked. All the tenants of the building were highly cooperative and soon the police had a serviceable sketch of the ‘ghost’. Worick took it in, memorizing it. A handsome man with a scruffy goatee, one eye, and an air of deep sadness.

Worick hated that ‘ghost’ with a passion like nothing he’d felt in his life. The remaining benriya only had one goal now and it was revenge. He would find the ‘ghost’ and end his life. Armed with a copy of the police sketch, Worick took to the streets in search of information.

Weirdly enough, information wasn’t hard to find. People who wouldn’t talk to the police would talk to him and they had a lot to say.

“That weird guy,” one of the prostitutes at the _Bastard_ said, cleaning out an ear with a finger. “He walks around all the time, I swear that’s all he does and he’s never got any money. He’s creepy too, he told Michaelo that he was gettin’ sick. A week later the man’s on his deathbed. You want to stay away from him honey, he’s bad luck.” Worick only smiled and thanked her.

She wasn’t the only one to see the bad luck man. Half the people he showed the picture to recognized the man and it was all the same… they had seen him walking, a katana in hand as he took in the world around him with an apathetic air. Several times, the ‘ghost’ had been attacked but he’d ended every battle without unsheathing his katana. However, there had been multiple bites, another thing to make the man weird. Everyone agreed he had to be a Twilight but no one had seen his tags.

Worick wasn’t the only one interested, either.

“We’ve been trying to bring him to the Guild for tagging but dragging that man in is like herding cats,” Hausen told him, lighting a cigarette. “It’d be funny if it wasn’t so frustrating. Doug found him and tried the physical approach, like he always does. We found him a couple hours later unconscious with a big bite mark on his butt.” Hausen was grinning and Worick smiled, faintly. His traitorous mind imagined Nic by his side, giving Hausen his patented ‘are you fucking serious’ look. “We did get the guy’s dental records from that, but no hits. Doug couldn’t sit right for a week. So then we sent Ginger.” Oh? Worick’s interest sharpened. “She had a long conversation with this guy and Ginger remembers that it just seemed to flow, going the weirdest places. Finally put her in a daze of confusion and when she was pulling herself together, he wandered off.” Hausen shrugged, tapping out his cigarette. “He seems harmless, even if he’s nuttier than a Christmas fruitcake. What d’you want the man for?”

“He’s the one who killed Nic,” Worick said simply and Hausen suddenly frowned, becoming dead serious.

“Worick, did I hear right about that? Rumors say his heart was torn out and they never found it,” Hausen asked quietly and Worick swallowed before nodding. “…The way this asshole likes to bite… you don’t suppose he ate it?” Worck took a deep breath before nodding. Everyone had speculated on that and, well, all the bites… it did make sense. “Shit.” Hausen’s frown was very real. “We don’t need that kind of batshit insanity in the Guild. Or anywhere in Ergastulum, really. You need some help?”

“No, I’m going to take care of this myself,” Worick said, firmly declining the offer. Hausen examined him thoughtfully for a moment before nodding.

“Alright, but we’ll send out some of our boys to find him and let you know.” Hausen reached out to grip his arm, a firm and friendly clasp. “And be careful. We don’t want to lose the both of you.” Worick returned the clasp, feeling warmed by it. It was good to know he still had friends.

And they managed to turn up the wandering man rather quickly. Ginger delayed him with another conversation while Worick made his way there, gun in hand. When he arrived, the ghost was trying to explain something to Ginger, moving his hands in slow gestures as she looked mildly concussed. Nic’s katana was tucked under the ‘ghost’s’ left armpit.

The man turned at his footsteps and Worick saw his single eye widen with surprise before he shot the fucker. The man stumbled back, more surprise on his features as Worick shot him a second time, then a third. The ‘ghost’ went down in a spray of blood and Worick knew he was dead but it didn’t _matter._ He emptied the clip into the body, enjoying every moment of it.

Worick only stopped when the gun clicked empty. Lowering his weapon, he looked at the corpse. A single grey eye was staring up, that expression of surprise fixed on his face. Vaguely, Worick wished the man had died in more pain. Like Nicolas. Still, he’d take what he could get.

“…Um…” Ginger seemed taken aback by the sudden violence. Weird for an S/5 Twilight, honestly. But Ginger had always seemed a bit strange to him.

“Well, that’s that. Can the Guild handle the cleanup?” Worick asked lightly and she nodded, a bit petrified. “Thanks Ginger.” He bent over and retrieved the katana, carrying it easily.

“No, uh… no problem,” she stuttered a little and Worick ignored it, turning and walking away. As he did, Hausen caught up with him, followed closely by Doug.

“Well that was impressively homicidal. Well done,” Hausen said admiringly. Doug, though, kept glancing back.

“Didn’t that seem too easy? I mean, that guy knocked me out and I’m A/0. Didn’t that seem too easy?” Worick ignored him. That was idiotic. “Maybe… maybe I should go check…?” Oh for god’s sake! Hausen put his feelings into words.

“Doug, stop being an idiot! Worick emptied a clip into him! The man’s dead, we’ll send some tags out later to clean it up and toss the body in the river. Now come on, we’ve got stuff to do.” They parted ways and Worick went home, katana in hand. He finally felt okay about staying at the apartment again, now that he’d secured his revenge.

If Doug had gone back to check, they would have realized the ‘corpse’ was missing immediately. As it was, though, the tags sent out to cleanup would find only bloodstains and assume wild dogs had stolen the corpse. They would say nothing of it, thinking they only needed to clear up the blood.

And life and death would go on.


	3. Mercenary no more

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nic gets to do something he always wanted to do.

Starrk was briefly confused about his temporary ‘death’.

Starrk’s own survival was not confusing. When a hollow broke their bones, they had the choice to retain their regenerative properties or sacrifice them for greater strength. Starrk had no need of more strength, had rejected it violently, and in so doing had chosen regeneration. That had proven to be a poor choice. Starrk wistfully wondered what it would be like to truly die. It was unlikely he would ever know… Aizen had once said that only a weapon capable of completely destroying his body would be enough.

It did take Starrk a bit of time to regenerate but honestly, the bullets were tiny wounds. His hierro had kept them from expanding properly although the ones lodged inside him did itch. They would work themselves out, probably sooner than later.

As he left the scene of his ‘death’, Starrk replayed it in his mind. The light haired man who had denned with the black haired one had attempted to kill him. Why? Starrk quickly realized it wasn’t confusing after all. The blonde human had been attempting to avenge his den-mate. Why though? Starrk frowned disapprovingly. The light-haired human should have killed and eaten his den-mate himself, it was the only decent thing to do.

Sighing, Starrk ran a hand through his hair. Humans were confusing and he could only assume there was some reason the human had not killed his own companion to end his pain. And he objected to Starrk doing it, perhaps because the arrancar had not been very gentle. Perhaps he should have broken the human’s neck. The hot blood had just been so enticing though, who could resist? Vaguely, Starrk decided he shouldn’t care about this as he began to walk again.

…His hand felt empty though. The katana. It was gone and he needed it. Starrk wasn’t sure why he needed it but he did. And his clothes were covered in blood. That would attract attention. Worse, peeks of bones were showing. That wasn’t good, Starrk couldn’t pretend to be human if his mask fragment was visible. What should he do?

He would give it some time, hide for a day or two, then return to the den the two men had shared. He would retrieve the katana and some clothing. Perhaps leave a message to the light-haired male to apologize for the situation.

Starrk doubted the human would forgive him but it was all he could do.

* * *

 

For Worick, the next few days felt like the start of healing.

It was so hard going on without Nicolas, so incredibly hard. But he’d had a long time to prepare for it. Alex stopped by to give him hugs and home cooked meals. The other tenants in the building were supportive. Even some of his clients tried to help out. One even baked him cookies, the sweet girl.

Then healing suddenly went by the wayside when Worick came home to a broken window.

“!” Shocked, Worick tried to figure out what had been taken. To his surprise, all the money was still there, completely untouched. In fact, he couldn’t find much missing at all. What could the thief have…?

A terrible thought occurred to him and Worick checked the closet. He’d been keeping Nic’s katana there, until he got a stand for it mounted on the wall of the living room. A sick feeling filled his stomach as he realized it was gone. And so was his second jacket, along with a shirt? Yeah, he was sure that a shirt was missing. Pants too? Damnit, how could he tell?

Searching the apartment for anything else out of place, Worick found a piece of paper on the desk. Words had been written and crossed out, multiple times, but Worick could read them despite that.

_I am suffering as you wanted me to suffer._

_There is no suffering here what are you talking about?_

_Fuck you this is your fault._

_I do not understand._

_…_

_Well stop interrupting I am trying to apologize for taking his jacket._

_No one cares about that but you._

_Why wouldn’t he care? It is a nice jacket it smells good._

_Whatever._

The whole conversation above was crossed out, but not thoroughly enough. The rest was clear and Worick read it, feeling cushioned with shock.

_I am sorry if eating your den-mate hurt you but it was the right thing to do he was in great pain. I need the sword I am not sure why but I need it so I took it. Sorry for breaking your window. I am very sorry for taking a jacket but I need that too you ruined my old one. It smells nice. You must smell nice too. I am very sorry if this is strange I am not used to humans yet. My deepest apologies._

“Not used to humans yet?” Worick murmured, still in shock. Had this guy been raised in some weird Twilight-only colony? He’d never heard of such a thing but it might explain a lot. Except – “How is that motherfucker _alive?_ ” No one could survive taking a dozen bullets. And yet, who else could have done this? Worick crumpled the note without thought before cursing and smoothing it. Who should he take it to?

Well, the first thing he had to do was block off the window. Worick had a hammer and nails and it didn’t take too long to find some boards. Soon he was nailing them in place, temporarily fixing the damage. With that done, Worick took the note to the Guild.

“Worick, this is batshit crazy. That man is dead, we all saw it,” Hausen said firmly as Doug listened in, wide-eyed. Worick rubbed his forehead, feeling a headache coming on.

“I know but I’m telling you this is what happened. Can you just ask everyone to keep an eye out for him? Please?” Worick begged and Hausen shook his head but finally agreed to spread the word. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me, Worick. I think you need help.” He’d take that under advisement. Next, he took the note to Chad, at the police station. And that was where Worick received another shock.

“Worick, did you notice something strange about this?” Chad said quietly after a long minute examining the note. “I mean, aside from the whole thing?”

“No, what?” Worick asked and Chad frowned before looking through his desk. He finally found a scrap of paper.

“Knew I still had it, I need to clean up my desk, I keep telling myself that but I never do it… look.” Chad put the scrap of paper beside the note and Worick immediately saw what he meant. The handwriting in the paper scrap matched part of the writing on the note. Not the main message, but parts of the scratched out portion. “Worick, this is a message Nic left for me once.” Wait, what?!? Worick tried to see if he was serious and was shocked to see he was. Chad was staring at the notes with a frown on his face. “This is some X-Files shit right here.”

“I…” Worick swallowed before shaking his head. “I don’t know how that man survived or why he would be mimicking Nic’s handwriting. But I’ll find him. I’ll find him and this time I’ll get an explanation.” This time he’d talk before shooting the bastard. Chad frowned.

“We’ll put out the description again. But he has to know we’re looking for him, if he has any brains he’ll go to ground.” That was too true. Worick was sure they would eventually dig him up.

It wasn’t like he could leave Ergastulum, after all.

* * *

 

Starrk walked slowly towards the West Gate of the city.

Now that his survival was confirmed to the light-haired human, Starrk knew he had to leave the city. There was no reason that he couldn’t. After all, his feet would take him anywhere.

Oddly enough, the humans disagreed.

“Where do you think you’re going Tag?” Humans holding guns and wearing very practical garments surrounded him. Starrk stopped obediently, not particularly alarmed. The one who seemed to be in charge, a male with black hair, eyed him with a sneer. “Well?”

“I am leaving the city,” Starrk said calmly and blinked as the men all laughed. What was funny about his intentions?

“Are you fucking serious? Crawl back to your hole before we shoot you full of holes!” Starrk lifted his lip, baring his fangs.

“I think you are being very rude, human. You should apologize,” Starrk said before slowly unsheathing his katana. The humans around him tensed as the leader scowled.

“Kill him!” Starrk was fully expecting that order and the katana flashed as he suddenly used his full speed. Bullets zinged in random directions and there was a scream as one of the humans was hit. Starrk paid it no attention, concentrating on his lethal dance. Then he took the offensive, but did not target the humans themselves. No, he went for the weapons, knocking them from their hands. In an instant they were disarmed and Starrk attacked the leader. A few sharp blows and Starrk had the man on his knees, standing behind him with his sword across his chest. A few of the other humans started forward or reached for their guns but halted as Starrk moved his sword threateningly.

“Now, is there an apology?” Starrk said calmly as the man in his grip gasped. “Or shall I open you? The choice is yours.”

“Fuck you Twilight scum!” The human rasped out and Starrk appreciated his spirit but not his lack of survival instinct. Feeling bored by the whole thing, he minutely adjusted the grip of his sword for the final swipe –

“What is going on here?” Starrk glanced over his shoulder, seeing a strange human flanked by two others. This man was wearing an eyepatch and Starrk blinked as images seemed to float through the back of his mind.

_…watching through a fence as the man with an eyepatch dropped a bottle…_

“Gaston Brown.” Starrk said aloud as he released the man he was holding. The stranger collapsed to his hands and knees, gasping, as Starrk turned and stood easily, katana in hand.  Vaguely, he wondered if the man would recognize it. The sword was the one thing remaining of the black-haired man. “I am surprised to still find you here.” In charge of the West Gate after so long. The other man just looked at him coldly.

“Do I know you?” Such harsh arrogance. It matched the vague recollections Starrk had perfectly. Starrk blinked slowly before shaking his head.

“No, but I know you. Are you perhaps recruiting?” Starrk asked. It seemed bizarrely appropriate to end where he… the black-haired man had begun. Starrk frowned at the internal stutter. This was a strong soul, to already be influencing him so strongly. It was also unusual for him to have memories from a soul. Before he could pursue that thought any further, Gaston laughed.

“I can’t afford a Twilight like you, let alone your Celebrer. Go back to Ergastulum.” That word again, what did it mean exactly? Starrk knew it was associated with the humans who could move surprisingly quickly, the ones that tasted so odd and delicious and sometimes smelled so intriguingly disgusting. Of course, Starrk wasn’t one of them, but it made sense that they would think so. How could he convince them otherwise? Hmm.

“I am not a Twilight. I am a ghost,” Starrk said calmly before reaching up and pulling aside the fabric looped around his head. The white bone on his face framed the empty socket that should have held an eye. The men in front of him all stared, taken aback. Gaston frowned before shaking his head.

“Okay, that’s pretty freakish but there’s no such thing as ghosts.” Oh really? Starrk calmly sheathed his sword before reaching for his jacket. “That’s fucking absurd – “ Starrk calmly unzipped the jacket to show the second void. “Uh…” Even Brown was silenced by the hole in his chest. After a moment of staring, Gaston reached up to scratch his hair. Starrk noticed he was beginning to go grey. “How the fuck does that work?”

“I don’t know,” Starrk answered calmly. Szayel could have told him how his anatomy worked but Starrk hadn’t cared enough. “But can we make a deal?” Gaston lifted an eyebrow and Starrk continued. “You will not pay me much and I will not work much. It will be equitable.” The other man was beginning to grin. The expression was oddly familiar to Starrk.

“You a lazy bastard?” Oh kami yes. How many times had Lilynette called him that? Starrk felt a deep pang as he remembered. Too many to count. Smiling sadly, Starrk nodded. “You don’t need Celebrer?” Starrk shook his head. “Alright, we have a deal. Marcus, take care of him,” Gaston ordered and one of the men beside him nodded, slinging his weapon over his shoulder before gesturing at Starrk to follow. Starrk went after him dociley.

As long as they didn’t ask him to do much and gave him a good place to sleep, Starrk would be content to remain.

* * *

 

For almost six months, Starrk remained with the mercenaries.

It was surprisingly peaceful. As promised, Starrk was not paid much nor did he have to do much. The mercenaries kicked him awake on a regular basis and forced him to do patrols with them, but it really wasn’t that much effort. And while his pay was miniscule, it existed and soon Starrk was spending it on the one thing he craved… female attention. Starrk soon became very popular among the prostitutes who frequented the camp. Starrk was amused to find he had a good reputation among them as a gentle and able lover. He knew it was largely due to his sense of smell… unlike human males, Starrk could scent arousal.

Starrk was not entirely accepted, of course. There were many rumors about him and many of the men strongly disliked him. Starrk just ignored it, drifting along in his own world.

Starrk had very little to do with Commander Gaston, which suited him quite well. Vague memories of the man haunted him and Starrk sometimes had something close to nightmares, involving painful emotions and blows. So Starrk preferred to not associate with the man.

Then it all came apart.

Starrk was called into a meeting with Commander Gaston. Two men were there, wearing clothing far too nice for the mercenaries. Suits? Yes, that was the word.

“Starrk, I want you to go with these men. Guard them with your life,” Gaston said and Starrk felt a deep suspicion as he met the man’s remaining eye. There was a bit too much tension in him. One of the strangers was smiling but it didn’t look right to him.

“Where will we be going?” Starrk asked as if he didn’t care. He didn’t miss the glance the two men exchanged. Starrk very alertly began scanning around him, trying not to betray himself. Ah, yes, there it was. A well concealed net gun that could probably be activated remotely.

“That’s not your concern, guarding them is.” Mmm, very nice. Starrk had known revealing his true nature was a mistake. He shrugged before abruptly grabbing a chair. There was a shout and the net went off… and Starrk threw the chair into it. The cords were completely fouled as he drew his katana. The men were shouting and guns were drawn but it all seemed like slow motion to Starrk. As he fixed his eyes on the Commander who had betrayed him, a new feeling welled up inside his broken heart. It… was…

**“I alwaYs WantEd to Kill YoU.”** Starrk heard himself say even as his sword flashed out faster than he could form the words. Blood exploded from Gaston’s chest and he quickly followed with the two strangers, killing them with contemptuous ease. Then he was running, dodging bullets and accepting a few impacts, unimportant wounds. Starrk knew he should run far, far away but instead, his feet took him in another direction.

Back into Ergastulum.


End file.
